


Be kind

by longnationalnightmare



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 10:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15314016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longnationalnightmare/pseuds/longnationalnightmare
Summary: It was absurd how much Eliot meant it—you’re cute—so cute Eliot wanted to swallow him whole.





	Be kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalpurna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalpurna/gifts).



> i've owed kalpurna this birthday present for almost two months, but the real gift is knowing how hard it was to finish without her help. thanks to drunktuesdays for reading&cheering for two, and for not murdering me when i got 10k in, scrapped the whole thing, and started over. it's not that important but consider this a close to canon au that diverges from show and book both sometime in quentin's first year at brakebills.

Eliot was sixteen when he had sex for the first time, with a guy at a 4H conference in Kansas City, which he hadn’t even wanted to go to. His mother had made him. It was a transparent effort to normalize him: to give him—Eliot thought she probably meant it kindly—some tools, if he wanted them. Tools for seeming like everybody else.

Of course it didn’t work. Eliot couldn’t be like everybody else, or seem like everybody else. He couldn’t even stand everybody else.

“Are you sure?” the guy said, his body hot against Eliot’s on the twin bed, a chair shoved under the door to stop Eliot’s roommate from coming in unexpectedly, not that Eliot knew what he was gonna do if someone _did_ try the door and couldn’t get in and called the front desk to report a fire hazard, but—

“Yes,” Eliot said acidly, kissing the guy hard, once, sloppy and super-sixteen.

“Okay,” the guy said gently, “just checking,” and then he didn’t ask again, just pinned Eliot to the bed and worked his cock into him, too-slow, careful as anything, even when Eliot squirmed and tried to make him go faster. The guy was strong. He held Eliot down, tsked, told him not to be so impatient. Like _he_ knew so much about it, Eliot thought, hissing and holding his breath, blinking back involuntary tears as his body clenched up on the intrusion. He was only eighteen—not _so_ much older than Eliot—not _smarter_ than Eliot, for sure. Eliot was smarter than almost everyone he’d ever met.

Afterwards, the guy kissed Eliot and said, “Happy?” in a dry voice that meant maybe he wasn’t _so_ dumb, anyway.

“Ecstatic,” Eliot said. When he moved a little on the bed, he could feel himself twitch down there, could feel how loose and sore he was, was gonna be. He didn’t want to blush but he couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re cute,” the guy said. Eliot was a sophomore at the time—this guy was a senior at a school across the state, about to leave for college. “If you’re ever in Grand Forks…”

“Why,” Eliot said in genuine disbelief, “ _would_ I ever be in Grand Forks?”

That was that. The guy left. Eliot never saw him again. It was an experience Eliot would recommend to anyone: attentive but impersonal. Convenient and uncomplicated. When he was pretty sure the guy was good and gone, Eliot walked down the hall and bought himself a candybar from one of the vending machines, then stood there for awhile, eyes closed, eating it and trying to remember, clear as possible, the parts he’d liked.

That next year, he found someone to fuck back home. His name was Jason: cornfed, all-American, blah. If Eliot was being careful, it probably wouldn’t have happened, but Eliot wasn’t being careful at all—he was desperate and hormonal and itching out-of-his-mind to feel it again, whatever it was he’d felt that first time, when he’d blinked in the middle and seen _himself_ in the face of the guy fucking him. It hadn’t even been scary. It had felt familiar. _Oh_ , he’d thought, _I’ll_ always _want this_.

Eliot was very, very smart, but he did lots of stupid things when he wanted something badly enough.

It ended up fine, though. He’d seen porn, and he’d caught Jason looking at him a couple times during gym class—not like he _liked_ Eliot. The kind of sidelong, speculative looks you’d throw the class fag if you were wondering whether guys really _did_ give better head. Eliot could work with that. He stopped Jason after class one day, “hey, I was thinking of going out for track,” and the second the last guy left the locker room, he dropped to his knees, no pretense, and went for it. He’d practiced on his own fingers at home, trying to take them so deep he gagged, then trying not to gag. An actual dick was different, and once Jason moved past the protesting stage, he got a little rough: holding Eliot’s head in place, fucking into his mouth, unbothered when Eliot choked.

After Jason came, Eliot sank back on his heels, dragged a hand across his mouth, and said, “Whoops,” because he couldn’t help himself. He really was expecting to get beaten half to death. Worth it.

What happened instead: he and Jason weren’t friendly.

They fucked sometimes, though.

Well—Jason fucked Eliot. He wasn’t very nice about it, but that was fine. Eliot had had kind. He’d _started_ with kind. The rest of it….he was just trying to get through high school.

And then. Eliot was a junior. Later, when he tried to piece it together, what exactly had happened, he couldn’t even do it: couldn’t figure out what went different. He’d been sucking Jason’s cock, up in his bedroom after school one day (Eliot had slunk in through the backdoor; never be seen together, that was rule number one). He’d gotten good at it by then: he could relax his throat, take pretty much anything.

He’d reached up to tug at Jason’s balls, rolling them in his hand, and then somehow, still sucking, found himself stroking back, so certain it was the right thing to do that he wasn’t even scared of tipping the guy over the edge—stroking back until the pad of his finger found the clench of Jason’s hole, fluttering under his touch. Jason hadn’t pulled away, and Eliot knew—he just knew it, suddenly—that he wanted it.

That was the first time _Eliot_ fucked someone. It was dreamy, too-quick. He got a finger in the guy’s ass, crooking it experimentally and choking when Jason fucked spasmodically forward in response. Then he gave up on the blowjob, pulled off and manhandled Jason back onto the bed, gave him the chance to say, “Fuck you, fag,” or something—anything—like that—but he didn’t—just kept breathing heavily and looked up at Eliot with huge, defensive, nervous eyes that made Eliot pause for a second to think: _you’ll_ always want this. It was mind-boggling. He was reminded abruptly of his own first time.

 _Fine,_ he thought resignedly, and even though he barely knew what he was doing, worked Jason open as carefully as he could, got his cock in there, fucked him face to face like there was nothing wrong with it. _Monkey see, monkey do_ , Eliot thought, high on the feeling of being inside another body, getting his hand around Jason’s cock and clenching until Jason seized up and came, then following him over the edge. In the aftermath, tying the condom off and tossing it off the edge of Jason’s bed—let _him_ deal with it—he felt, more than anything, pedagogically virtuous—as if, against all the odds of his own personality, he’d managed to model some good behaviors. Someone had been kind to him; he’d been kind to someone else in turn, even if they didn’t deserve it, really. Even if they weren’t likely to appreciate it, or be grateful.

He was proud of himself.

He never fucked Jason again.

 

“Et voila,” Eliot said, twisting his wrist demonstratively as Margo rolled her eyes. “The man you see before you.”

“Dramatic,” she said.

“Sorry, Bambi,” he said, rolling his own eyes. “You wanna tell yours again?”

“Bite me,” she said. She smoothed a lock of hair behind her ears and re-crossed her legs, then drained her drink, casting a judgmental eye around the room. “This party sucks,” she said, staring down into her empty cup. When she snapped her fingers, a nervous guy who’d been hovering nearby tripped forwards and took it wordlessly, stammeringly promising to—re—refill—“whatever,” Margo said dismissively. “This is so seventh grade.”

“You were telling stories about losing your virginity in seventh grade?” Quentin asked.

He seemed immediately to realize that he’d made a mistake when Eliot and Margo shifted in unison to stare at him. He froze like a deer which knew it had been noticed, and hadn’t understood, before, how much it was enjoying obscurity.

“ _Hell_ o,” Margo said, leaning forward so that her tiny skirt shifted up another half-inch on her smooth, tan legs.

“Uh,” Quentin said, “hi.” Eliot cast him a pitying look. For a smart guy, Quentin could be deliciously dumb. He seemed to spend most of his time worrying about being judged or mocked or disliked, but he rarely recognized danger when it was genuinely afoot.

“Are you a virgin, nerd?” Margo said coolly.

“Am I—whoa,” Quentin said. “What? No. What?”

“Oh my god,” Margo said, “he is. El, isn’t that sweet? He is.”

“No, I said I’m not,” Quentin said hurriedly, and looked at Eliot like Eliot might— _what, baby?_ Eliot thought gleefully. Back him _up_. He just shrugged and made a little face that might, to an undiscerning interpreter, seem sympathetic. Quentin’s eyes were big with panic. Yum.

“Mmm, I heard you,” Margo said She leaned back again and tucked her legs up onto the sofa, leaning into Eliot’s side. “Tell us about it, then.”

“About losing my, uh. Virginity?” Quentin said. Margo just kept looking at him. “I’d rather not,” he said after a long moment, interrupted only by a chorus of shouts from the other room. Quentin glanced longingly towards the foyer.

“Oh, but I’d rather you did,” Margo said. “El? Tie-breaker? Wouldn’t you rather he did?”

Eliot tucked her close and petted her hair. “You’re very cruel,” he told her.

“Well?”

“Come on, Coldwater,” Eliot said. “She’ll get it out of you eventually.”

Quentin looked torn. His hands were tucked inside his hoodie sleeves. It was, unfortunately, delectable. Eliot wanted to kiss each of his knuckles in turn. People shouldn’t really, in Eliot’s opinion, be allowed to walk around looking like Quentin did, not _knowing_ it, the way Quentin really and genuinely didn’t. It was very tiring for everybody else.

“Fine,” Quentin said eventually. “It was. It’s really not that interesting. She was—”

“A girl?” Margo said.

“Uh, _yes_ ,” Quentin snapped, and then, glancing at Eliot, “I mean, not that—uh. Yeah. That’s—I don’t even know what you want to know.”

Margo raised an eyebrow. “Like, a single detail would be good,” she said. “Did you make out under the dock? Did you stay out till past ten o’ clock?”

“We were in high school,” Quentin said. “We were at a party. It really wasn’t that—you know. It wasn’t, like, memorable.”

“Did she let you do it again?” Margo said, and laughed when Quentin spluttered.

“Yes,” Quentin said, scowling.

“She did not,” Margo said. “But you have, since then….?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Quentin snapped, and Margo laughed again.

“You’re cute,” she said cheerfully. “I don’t believe a word you say.”

Her nameless paramour lurched back up, then, carrying her drink in both hands. “Um,” he said as he handed it over, “I was wondering if. In the other room they’re dancing so. If you.”

“Oh, why not,” Margo said, and uncurled herself, rising gracefully from the couch without spilling a drop of her cocktail. “Eliot,” she added, cocking a hip. “Coming?”

Eliot got up too. “Q?” he said, but Quentin just looked sullenly up from under his unreal eyelashes and said nothing. “Your loss,” Eliot told him. “Margo’s a _very_ good dancer.”

“Yeah, but I don’t grind on liars,” she said. She pirouetted away before even catching a glimpse of Quentin’s furious face.

“Ignore her,” Eliot said bracingly. “She just needs to get laid. Watch. She’ll be so nice to you tomorrow.”

“I don’t care,” Quentin said despairingly, and dropped his face into his hands as Eliot left, laughing on the inside.

Eliot danced for three straight hours, stopping only a couple times to down shots of tequila, and once to make out with someone against a window before pulling back and realizing—“oh. You,” which Mark took in stride once he recognized Eliot back. They really _weren’t_ sexually compatible . Someone had conjured a disco ball, and had made the room seem twice as crowded as it must actually have been, too. It was like being at an actual club, somewhere Eliot would have _liked_ to be—Brakebills was fine for learning magic but there was a limited pool of possible partners on campus, and Eliot had overfished it. He _could_ have found someone to fuck regardless: in a pinch, an “oh. you,” would do. But—he was in the mood for something new. After earlier, especially.

Eventually Margo tapped his shoulder and, when he turned, gestured smugly at the staircase, where her nervous lurker was death-gripping the bannister, staring intently at her, as if trying to compel her to follow. Eliot pulled a face. “Stalker?” he shouted over the music.

Margo leaned close. “He did this thing,” she half-shouted against his ear—he could still barely hear her—“with his tongue—”

“Ugh,” Eliot said, pulling a face, and shoved her away as she smirked. “Enjoy, I guess.”

He danced for a while longer, then, but the party really was winding down. When there were only a few people left in the living room, he picked his way through the debris to the kitchen and ate half a bowl of leftover spaghetti while sitting on a countertop, drumming his heels against the drawers. Then, when the music still hadn’t stopped, and the air was still thick and hot and so smoky he was probably getting a contact high, he slipped out the back door and took his shirt off, dropped it onto the patio, and stood there in the cool night air, staring up at the stars and enjoying the slightly painful feeling of his nipples getting very hard, very quick, until—“Um.”

Eliot turned disbelievingly. Quentin was laid out on one of the loungers nobody ever really used except Eliot and Margo. He’d spread a pink jacket across his legs, and his face was half-raised, bleary with sleep.

“What,” Eliot said, “in god’s name are you doing out here?”

“Sleeping,” Quentin said, blinking, gaze stuck on Eliot’s chest.

“I can see _that_ ,” Eliot said. “Surely you have a dorm room. Surely the school isn’t in such dire financial straits that we’re forcing the first years to live rough.” _My eyes are up here_ , he considered adding when Quentin just kept blinking confusedly, but he was feeling benevolent. _Look away_ , he thought instead.

Quentin shook his head, finally, and sat up in the lounger. He scrubbed at his eyes, pushed his hair back behind his ears. “I room with Penny,” he said.

“....Alright,” Eliot said.

“He’s,” Quentin said, and paused. “You know.”

“I’d know if you said it,” Eliot told him.

Even through the dark, Eliot could see Quentin’s cheeks redden. “Hooking up,” Quentin said, slightly baleful, and sighed. “With Kady.”

“The sordid details aren’t necessary,” Eliot said.

“Oh, _now_ they’re not?”

Eliot stared Quentin down until he subsided somewhat, still looking sulky. He was shivering. “Alright,” Eliot said finally, stooping to pick his shirt up and beckoning at Quentin. “Come on.”

“Come,” Quentin said, and stopped, looking confused.

“On,” Eliot repeated. “Come on. Follow me. Let’s go.”

“Penny’s really gonna be mad if I come back,” Quentin said.

Eliot sighed. Dumb. Dumb. By all reports, great at magic, but dumb as a bag of _rocks_ , and too cute to be allowed to lie around in the moonlight like this, pink-faced and confused, like a stupid, sexy baby. “You’re not going back to your room,” he told Quentin, still beckoning. “You’re coming to my room.”

“Um,” Quentin said in an alarmed little tone.

“To sleep,” Eliot said. He rolled his eyes. “I’m being kind. I’m being nice to you.”

“It’s really hard to know,” Quentin said tiredly, but he did get up, letting the pink jacket slip to the ground, and padded across the patio to follow Eliot into the house.

Upstairs, Quentin entered Eliot’s room cautiously, like he thought there might be a pail of water balanced on top of the door. He looked spooked, a little cagy, but—interested, too, peering around, eyes darting from Eliot’s crowded dresser-top to his unmade bed to the messy nook by the window, where Eliot did most of his genuine studying—the kind he didn’t like other people to see. There were some unwieldy piles of library books stacked against the wall. Quentin took a half-step towards them, cocking his head to read the titles, then remembered himself and stopped moving. He stood near the foot of the bed fidgeting instead, hands tucked up into his sleeves again.

“I don’t bite,” Eliot said patiently, “unless, etcetera, etcetera. It’s a big bed. Be grateful. I could have left you outside. Or worse: installed you on one of the sofas.”

“That sounds fine,” Quentin said, a little yearningly, glancing back towards the door.

“After tonight?” Eliot said. He kicked his pants off, ignoring the way Quentin’s eyes widened and he glanced jerkily at the ceiling. “Run a UV light over them, then say that again.”

“Gross,” Quentin said, and seemed to decide abruptly that he had, indeed, happened onto the best offer he was likely to get. He twitched and turned to face the window, shoulders hunched up as he unzipped and shucked his hoodie, and then, after a moment’s indecision, stepped out of his jeans too.

If Eliot were a better person, he’d probably have averted his eyes, but he—well—wasn’t. He’d already crawled into bed, and he propped himself up against the headboard to take in the sight of Quentin’s tense back, shifting under his t-shirt, and the unclear curve of his ass beneath slightly saggy boxer briefs. He shrugged unrepentantly when Quentin turned suddenly and caught him staring, but Quentin didn’t even object: just flushed, and ducked his head, and clambered quickly into the bed as well, jamming his legs under the covers and tugging them up to his chin.

“Isn’t this cozy,” Eliot said, mostly for the joy of watching Quentin flush and blink up at the ceiling.

“Yes,” Quentin said. He seemed to have decided it was the only possible answer.

“Aren’t you glad I rescued you?”

“Yes,” Quentin said again.

Eliot felt warm and smug, still a little drunk, and tired after all the dancing, but in that loose, achey way that meant he hadn’t quite done _everything_ his body wanted. Mm. Not a good time to think about that.

On the other hand—“Sooo,” he said slowly, drawing it out.

Quentin stiffened up immediately. “No more questions,” he said, “God, please.”

“Shhh,” Eliot said. “You’re safe here. Bambi’s off boning her bimbo.”

Quentin darted a glance around the room anyway, as if she might be about to slink out of a shadow for further interrogation. “She’s just,” he said carefully, “very, very scary.”

“Poor baby,” Eliot said. Quentin twitched. He was so high-strung. If Eliot rolled over right now and bit his earlobe, he’d probably come in his briefs. “She’s not here now, though,” Eliot said instead, exercising supreme self-control. He tucked a hand under his cheek on the pillow and fixed Quentin with a deliberately filthy look. “So you can tell me all your sordid secrets.”

“I don’t have any— _sordid_?”

“Come on,” Eliot said. Quentin’s hands were clutched up together above his breastbone, his small, solid chest rising and falling rapidly. “Tell me about your first time—”

“I _did_ —”

“—with _details_ ,” Eliot said. He rubbed his ankles together under the sheets. “Tell Uncle Eliot _all_ the dirty, nasty details. Leave nothing out.”

“ _Un_ cle—um ,” Quentin gulped. His hands twitched.

“Come on. Who saved you from freezing to death in the night?”

“There _aren’t_ any nasty details,” Quentin said. His voice had a little whine in it. “It wasn’t—I wasn’t lying, before. She….” Quentin sighed. To Eliot’s astonishment, he squirmed a little so that he was tipped towards Eliot in the bed—not quite facing him, but. Closer. Eliot’s heart double-thumped. _Stop_ , he told it sternly. “I think she’d just, uh, broken up with her boyfriend, and we were at this party and...I was there. And she wanted it. And I wanted it. Is it—normal to tell this kind of story? It doesn’t feel normal.”

“It’s normal,” Eliot said. “At the party? In a bedroom?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said. He swallowed. “In the coat room. On the floor.”

“Mmm,” Eliot said, and didn’t ask any more questions because he could feel himself fattening up just thinking about it—Quentin, young and scrawny and unsure of himself, jeans around his ankles, saying something like, “we shouldn’t—the door—” and gasping when she got her legs around him, impatient, and drove him forward, into her. Fucking her, arrhythmic, too nervous even to enjoy himself.

Fuck. Eliot really did have a boner.

“Like I said.” Quentin shrugged, rustling the sheets. “It wasn’t special.”

“Your first time doesn’t have to be special,” Eliot said.. “It just has to be...”

“Mm?”

“Serviceable,” Eliot said.

“I have no idea what that means,” Quentin said after a moment.

“You know,” Eliot said.

“No,” Quentin said, “I don’t.” He sounded sulky again. “Mine was.” He stopped.

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

“Come on,” Eliot said. “Promise I won’t tell Margo.”

“A disaster,” Quentin said sourly, and sighed.

“Well,” Eliot said. What was a comforting thing to do? He let his hand drift across the bed to touch Quentin’s arm. “There’ll be other firsts.”

Quentin went very still.

... _oh_ , Eliot thought, and did the same.

The room was quiet. Quentin kept not moving, except for his chest, rising and falling evenly in a way that Eliot thought must be on purpose—like he was trying to stay calm. “Yeah,” Quentin said finally, voice just about steady. “I guess.”

“I mean,” Eliot said.

“I know—”

“There’s your first time—”

“I _know_ —”

“—doing it, and then—”

“Eliot,” Quentin said in a pained voice.

Eliot really _hadn’t_ been trying to get anything on the table but—a reaction was a reaction. Eliot had restraint but he wasn’t a _saint_. “What,” he said, “you think you’ll never?”

“I’m not,” Quentin said, and stopped. “I don’t.”

“Well,” Eliot said, “I hope when it happens. _If_ it happens. Whoever it is—”

“Oh my god.”

“—is careful. You deserve that. You deserve for it to be good.”

More heavy breathing.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, and cleared his throat.

“Anyway,” Eliot said. He rubbed once at Quentin’s arm, felt Quentin twitch beneath the touch, and withdrew his fingers. “Got your eye on anyone?”

“What?” Quentin’s voice cracked. He winced. Eliot shivered, and viciously suppressed it.

“A nice girl?” Eliot said blandly. “The nervy blonde, maybe?”

“You know her name’s Alice,” Quentin said.

Eliot did. “Right,” he said, “her. Are you two gonna—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Quentin said. He didn’t move, though, even when Eliot shrugged and stretched as if to say, _who cares?_ , and his toes brushed Quentin’s ankle beneath the sheets.

“What?” Eliot said. “Just wondering. As a friend.”

“Are we friends?”

“You’re in my bed,” Eliot said. Fuck, he was hard. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hard. “That’s pretty friendly. You’re not, like—celibate, are you?”

“What?” Quentin said again. He wasn’t looking at Eliot but Eliot could tell he wanted to—eyes drifting to the right and then jerking back, like he had to remind himself to keep staring at the ceiling.

“You don’t _want_ to be celibate?”

“No, of course I don’t,” Quentin said.

“Ah,” Eliot said. He almost said something else but— _let it ride,_ he told himself, and stayed silent, toe still curled against Quentin’s leg. He had a good hand. He _knew_ he did. Sometimes you didn’t even have to bluff; you just had to sit very still and wait—

“What about you?”

“Am I celibate?” Eliot asked, arching a brow.

“No,” Quentin said. “I mean—yes—I mean—at Brakebills. Is there anybody you. Uh.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I mean,” he said, clearly trying to sound casual, “I saw you earlier, with, uh, this guy.”

“Mark?” Eliot said.

“I guess,” Quentin said. “You were. Um.”

Eliot stayed quiet, but Quentin didn’t finish the sentence. “We used to fuck,” Eliot said finally. “It’s a small campus. He does nature magic, you know, landslides and thunderstorms and shit—”

“I know what nature is,” Quentin said.

“—but we haven’t hooked up for a couple years.”

“Oh.”

“Fun while it lasted,” Eliot said. He moved his toe. Quentin shivered. _Okay_ , Eliot thought, _just go for it if you’re gonna._ “This one time—”

“Um—”

“—Dean Fogg caught us in the corridor behind the faculty common room—”

“I get it,” Quentin said, “that you guys used to, um. I don’t have to—you don’t have to tell me about it.”

“Oh,” Eliot said, and stretched out deliberately so that he was crowding into Quentin’s space. “I thought you were interested.”

“Just because you and Margo are so nosy,” Quentin said, and then, “Why would you even,” and then, “I’m not. Why would you think that.”

“You just looked interested,” Eliot said distinctly, shrugging one shoulder, and let his eyes drift down Quentin’s body, slow and deliberate.

Quentin didn’t say anything. He’d been had shifting as Eliot spoke, listing onto his side, tucking his knees up a little. His hands were fisted up on his chest, holding the sheets taut. He looked kind of queasy. Eliot was pretty sure—no—about a hundred percent sure he was hard. His eyes had that glassy quality that meant he’d gone somewhere as Eliot was talking, somewhere visceral and alarming. “Well,” he said, and stopped.

“It’s okay,” Eliot said. “It happens.”

“I’m kind of drunk,” Quentin said.

 _No, you’re not,_ Eliot thought, but he just said, “I know,” and, “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Quentin shrugged. “Seriously,” Eliot said, “you should see some of the guys Margo and I pick up. They all think—”

“Margo and you?” Quentin interrupted. “Like….Margo and you together?”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, drawing it out. “You wouldn’t believe how many straight guys are willing to sign up for me if it means they get Margo, too.”

Quentin swallowed heavily.

“Or,” Eliot said, “maybe you would.”

Quentin was lying very still, like an animal which thinks that if it doesn’t move, it might cease to be seen.

“It doesn’t mean they don’t end up liking it,” Eliot said. “It’s just sex. They’re usually ashamed, at the beginning, about even being hard in front of me, but most guys stop complaining once you’re sucking their dick.”

“Wow,” Quentin said. “Um.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, “I can hear you,” and shifted again with a little wince that sent a zing down Eliot’s spine.

“Have you ever gotten a blowjob from someone who was really good at it?” Eliot said after a long, heavy moment. 

Quentin hesitated visibly; then shook his head. He looked like he’d been hypnotized.

“Wanna?” Eliot said. He flexed his fingers.

 _Say yes,_ he thought, sudden and fierce.

“....okay,” Quentin said, barely audible.

Eliot was moving before he could second-guess himself, skimming his briefs off, yanking the sheets back, and getting a leg over Quentin. He took his time peeling Quentin’s clothes off, though. Why not? He was only gonna get to do it once, and Quentin was so—unwrappable, for lack of a better word.

With most guys, no matter how hot they were, Eliot didn’t care that much about the part where they stripped off. They were gonna look good. It wasn’t that deep. Quentin, though...feeling him squirm with discomfort, anticipation, when Eliot pulled the hem of his t-shirt up a little and bent to kiss his belly was half the fun.

And his whole energy changed as Eliot tugged his briefs down, then rucked his shirt up and off, trapping his arms above his head. He was practically vibrating with discomfort. “Um,” he said, trying to wriggle his arms free, but Eliot pinned him to the bed and held him there, just looking him over, instead. “El,” Quentin said insistently, still struggling fruitlessly.

“Shh,” Eliot said, and drank him in. He had a nice little body, under the layers and layers of wrinkled t-shirts and shapeless cardigans he liked to wear, and without a messenger bag slung defensively across his chest, either. Soft, slightly-furred stomach, biteable pecs, and a splotchy flush flooding down his throat and across his chest. Surprisingly strong-looking thighs.

In another world, he probably _had_ been memory-wiped, moved back to Brooklyn, become something stupid like a bike messenger, and Eliot had tracked him down and rented an AirBnB and hired him for a delivery; hauled him into the apartment, ignoring his spluttering; fucked him for the first time over a counter, or up against a window, or in the shower, pressing him up against a wall and working him open, watching rivulets of water slide down his back. That would have been hot: knowing everything about Quentin, Quentin knowing nothing about him. Convincing him into _that_ would have been half the fun.

This was better.

“Is it always,” Quentin said, and cut himself off.

“What?”

“So. slow,” Quentin said, scowling. “With guys.”

Eliot laughed abruptly in spite of himself. “No,” he drawled, while Quentin scowled harder and tried to tug his arms free again, “it’s not always _so slow_ with guys. I’m checking you out. I’m seeing what I’m working with.”

“Um, okay,” Quentin said. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, trying to hold Eliot’s gaze, as if in doing so he might be able to prevent any further examination of his body. “I know I’m not, like, a—club boy or. Whatever. You could just—”

“A what now?”

“—not, we don’t have to—”

“A _club_ boy?”

“A twink,” Quentin said, “I don’t know.”

“...No,” Eliot said, “you sure don’t,” and held Quentin’s gaze for another long moment before flicking his eyes deliberately downwards.

“Can you just—I _said_ ,” Quentin said, “we don’t have to, just—it’s not a big deal. If you let me up. I’ll go back—”

“Outside?” Eliot said absently. Quentin’s cock… “Stop being such a drama queen,” he added when Quentin tried to keep talking. “You look good. If I met you at a club, I’d fuck you, calm down.”

That was a nice image, Eliot thought, still staring at Quentin’s dick. Quentin would look so _incredibly_ stupid at a club. There was no way he could dance. Eliot wasn’t sure he even knew how to order a drink. He’d just be—lurking in a corner or something, hair in his face, hands shoved in his pockets. Even if you did manage to drag him out on the dancefloor, he’d probably have an aneurysm about it.

Eliot was so wrapped up in that thought, and in an idle, mouth-watering assessment of Quentin’s equipment— _not too long, but thick, thick enough to make it a mouthful—_ that it took him a minute to realize Quentin had stopped squirming. When he glanced back up, Quentin’s face was flushed, and his eyes were wide and dark.

“Oh,” Eliot said, “you like that?”

“What? No, I just,” Quentin said. His wrists twitched under Eliot’s grip, but he didn’t try to pull away. He wouldn’t meet Eliot’s eyes anymore.

“You _do_ ,” Eliot said. “Look at you. You look sunburned.”

Quentin went, if possible, redder. “Fuck off,” he said, and winced, as if he knew he shouldn’t have responded.

“It’s cute,” Eliot said, and then, shhhing softly, loosened his grip on Quentin’s wrists so that he could trail his hand down Quentin’s arm, watching all the hairs stand up in the wake of his finger; and so that he could pet Quentin’s face, rub a thumb at the corner of his mouth. Quentin, who’d been so desperate to cover himself up moments before, seemed frozen, chest rising and falling rapidly. Eliot stroked his throat. It was hot under his hand. “You’re cute,” he said.

“...Thanks,” Quentin said. When he blinked, he looked like a baby deer.

Jesus, it was absurd. It was absurd how much Eliot meant it— _you’re cute—_ so cute Eliot wanted to swallow him whole. “You gotta relax,” he said, almost gentle. “You’re cute but you gotta relax.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sex is fun,” Eliot said, stroking down Quentin’s chest, worrying the little divot of his breastbone. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

“I _know_ ,” Quentin said, “obviously it’s fun. I’m fine, I said I’m fine.”

“Just,” Eliot said, “chill out.” He’d already been straddling Quentin; he let himself sink back a little, so that their cocks were aligned, and hitched forward, watching, pleased, as Quentin’s eyes went wide and he looked down like he couldn’t believe it was happening. “Think happy thoughts,” Eliot murmured.

“Okay, that’s weird,” Quentin said. “When you say it like that—weird.” His hips were moving, though, jerking up into the sensation, and he was still staring at their cocks, mouth agape, like he almost hadn’t realized Eliot would _have_ one.

“Mm,” Eliot said. “When you jerk off—”

“Oh my god—”

“What do you think about?”

“Nothing,” Quentin said, looking more apoplectic than ever. “Normal stuff, just. You know. Nothing.”

Eliot settled a little more weight back, half because it felt fucking good—Quentin’s cock hot against his—half to watch Quentin wince. Something in his tone…. “Have you ever thought about me?” Eliot said, low.

“No,” Quentin snapped too quickly. “I’m not—I mean—”

“Oh?”

Quentin licked his lips, then seemed to realize it and stopped. They were wet and tempting. Eliot hadn’t even kissed him yet. “No,” he said again. “I haven’t. Everyone doesn’t just go around thinking about you like that all the time.”

“You have,” Eliot said. He bent to kiss Quentin’s jaw, careful and soft, and turned his head so that his mouth was close and hot next to Quentin’s ear. “I can tell.”

“I _haven’t_ ,” Quentin said. For a moment, nobody spoke. Eliot could feel Quentin’s pulse, quick and insistent. Then: “Just—one time—because you said that thing about—”

“Oh my god—”

“—seducing me,” Quentin said. “ _Stop it_.”

But Eliot _couldn’t_ stop. He was laughing helplessly, face buried in Quentin’s neck. He felt genuinely, unexpectedly buoyant, and more buoyant still when Quentin groaned with embarrassment and started trying to squirm out from under him again. Nuh uh, Eliot thought. Nuh _uh_ , no _way_ , after saying _that?_ He let his body deadweight on top of Quentin’s, kissing anything he could find—his neck, his ear—“It’s okay,” he said, voice a little husky from laughter, thrilling when Quentin shivered and went still under him again. “I’m very attractive, it’s okay—of course you have.”

“At least you don’t have a big head about it,” Quentin said, sour and unsteady.

Eliot wasn’t listening to him. He was thinking, rubbing his hands up Quentin’s sides, about how much he liked it: the idea of Quentin, knotted up in his dorm bed with Penny snoring across the room, shoving a hand into his briefs, fisting his dick, trying to think about anything else— _anyone_ else—and finding his mind empty of everyone but Eliot. Quentin picturing Eliot’s mouth. Quentin blushingly imagining Eliot’s dick. Quentin stroking himself off to the thought of Eliot riding like a white knight into his life to save the damn day.

It was just so….

Eliot didn’t know what it was.

Silly, a little. Something else, too.

 _Hot_ , he reminded himself, it was _hot_ , which was enough to make him raise his head, still breathless with laughter, and say, “Okay, pay attention—for your spank bank—” and finally kiss Quentin just as he begin to protest.

Quentin made the softest little noise when Eliot’s lips met his, and went pliant right away. Eliot pressed closer, coaxing his mouth open, and thinking, startled: _this_? This _is what you needed?_ Quentin was like a puzzle box. He was inexplicable. And a sweet, clumsy kisser, too, who seemed shocked to find that he liked it, his hand rising to curl hesitantly against the side of Eliot’s neck as he arched up, panting and easy.

“—maybe we shouldn’t,” Quentin said, breathless, when Eliot pulled back. His lips were wet and red. Eliot wanted to bite him. “Fuck, I mean.”

“It was your idea,” Eliot said mildly. He was starting to realize that Quentin didn’t understand the concept of feeling good: it just made him nervous.

“It,” Quentin said, and frowned. “Not exactly.”

“Okay, well,” Eliot said, “just say stop,” and slid down the bed to suck Quentin’s cock into his mouth.

Quentin made the prettiest sound Eliot had ever heard, like all the air had gone out of him, and bucked right up into Eliot’s mouth. Eliot didn’t even mind, but he pinned his hips to the bed on principle and took him to the root, opening his throat up and moving showily, flicking his eyes up to try and see Quentin’s face. “Fuck,” Quentin said. His head was tipped back. “Fuck, fuck—”

Eliot pulled off. “Stop?” he said.

“What?” Quentin shoved his elbows under him and gaped down at Eliot. “I didn’t—”

“Do you want me,” Eliot said, “to stop?”

Quentin’s chest was heaving. His dick was red and wet, slapping against his stomach. “...No,” he said, clearly forcing the word out.

“No?”

Quentin’s hair had fallen into his eyes. “No, don’t. Don’t stop,” he said.

“You just had to ask,” Eliot told him, and leaned close to kiss the head of his cock, a soft, sweet kiss, licking a little drip of precome up before taking him deeper again, tracing a pulsing vein with his tongue.

Blowing Quentin was gratifying in ways Eliot couldn’t even put his finger on. It took about two seconds for Quentin to get crazy, shaking and groaning, repeating Eliot’s name over and over in this low, two-by-foured tone that made _Eliot’s_ dick twitch with need. His hips kept hitching under Eliot’s arm, even though he was clearly trying to restrain himself, and he didn’t touch Eliot at all until Eliot pulled off again and said raspily, “I won’t break.” Then he did thread a hand through Eliot’s hair, even if he seemed scared to pull or push at all: just rested it there, stroking Eliot’s temple with his thumb.

Usually Eliot liked it a little rough.

This was good too.

When Eliot felt Quentin’s abs start to really tense up, he pulled off again, ignoring Quentin’s low, involuntary whine. “Shh, come on,” Eliot said, kissing up his stomach, stopping to suck experimentally at one of his small, pink nipples. Quentin arched up into it, saying, “ _oh_ ,” in a shocked little voice, like he’d never even _touched_ himself before—like he didn’t know anything about his own body. “Mm,” Eliot said, and bit his pec right where it wanted so badly to be bitten, on its soft upper swell. He kissed the hollow of Quentin’s throat and his jawline and the corner of his mouth, then just kissed him, wet and open, dragging Quentin close, thinking about Quentin tasting himself on Eliot’s tongue. “I don’t want you to come yet,” he said when he pulled back, breathing heavily. “Not before I get inside you. Okay?”

Quentin blinked. “Uh,” he said shakily. “Before you—oh. Eliot—”

“You’re gonna like it,” Eliot said. He was thumbing Quentin’s cheek. “I can tell, I know you’re gonna, okay? You don’t even know what you like.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Quentin said. He had little creases at the corners of his eyes.

“No,” Eliot said brainlessly, and kissed him again, kissed him until Quentin was thrumming and gasping under him; then, when Quentin was so desperate he’d started to arch up, whining for friction, Eliot pulled back and bullied him over onto his stomach.

“Hey—!” Quentin said, but Eliot just kept soothing him through the surprise, petting down the line of his back.

“You’re just,” Eliot said, “really tense,” and crowded close against him, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and kissing him there—just once, lightly, at first, but Quentin groaned so abruptly that Eliot bared his teeth, too, and sucked a little mark onto the skin, flickering his tongue against it in satisfaction when he was done. _You don’t know anything_ , Eliot thought, _not_ anything _about what you like. I’ll show you._ He was straddling Quentin. He bent to kiss him right between his shoulder blades and rutted forward until his cock was sliding along Quentin’s crack.

Quentin, who’d been shivering and shivering, startled and went unnaturally still the second he felt Eliot’s dick on his ass. He was breathing hard. “I’m not gonna shove it right in,” Eliot said gently.

“Go _d_ ,” Quentin said, but didn’t loosen up a bit.

Eliot wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t. He could—he kept moving a little, hand spread flat on Quentin’s back, holding him down— _imagine_ it, though. It was beginner level magic to slick someone up: he’d learned it his first week at Brakebills. It would be easy to do it now, watch Quentin shock at the unfamiliar sensation, not quite sure what was happening; and easy, then, to change the angle of his hips a little bit, get a hand around his dick, guide it to the little clench of Quentin’s hole and start to sink right in. The sounds Quentin would make—

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Eliot wondered dimly if he should have jerked off on Quentin’s chest before flipping him over, or fucked his pretty mouth, made him swallow it. Anything that would mean he wasn’t this achingly hard already.

Eliot never had a problem lasting. He really didn’t. He’d had a lot of sex in his life, and even when it was really good—even when he was enjoying himself tremendously—he’d never stopped thinking straight in the middle. He really hadn’t. He could fuck a guy for hours and stay completely in control, amping up when he wanted to, pulling back to make it last. He _could_.

He felt—

Not like that, right now.

“I wouldn’t,” he said, and kissed Quentin’s shoulder—then bit it—then kissed it again, and buried his face in the junction of Quentin’s neck and shoulder, repeating himself. “I wouldn’t, idiot.” It was so nice to have Quentin trapped beneath him like this—to be blanketing Quentin tip to toe, to feel his compact body trembling with arousal, adrenaline. “Still hard for me?”

“...Yeah,” Quentin said. His face was turned on the pillow, so _red_.

“Don’t come,” Eliot said. “Remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Until….” Quentin didn’t say anything; Eliot got a hand on his ass, finally, and squeezed. It was small, and firm; and more importantly, when Eliot kneaded at it, his dick sank a little further into Quentin’s crack, a little closer to the small, tight place where Quentin’s body _wanted_ him—wanted him to sink in, fill it up. “Come on,” Eliot said, fucking along that slick channel, cockhead hitching against Quentin’s hole. “Tell me.”

“Until you’re in me,” Quentin said. “But—I might not _like_ it.”

“You will,” Eliot said. He made himself pull back and start to kiss down Quentin’s spine, ignoring the way Quentin squirmed and craned his neck to see what was happening.

“Eliot,” Quentin said. His voice was hoarse. _You haven’t even screamed yet_ , Eliot thought, and kissed the swell of Quentin’s ass, breathless, grabbed his own dick and squeezed the base to be careful. “I might—”

“You’ll like it,” Eliot said. “Do you think I can’t tell what you’ll like? Don’t hump the bed, okay, don’t come—”

“What—” Quentin said, but he didn’t have time to say anything else before Eliot had spread his ass cheeks and curled his tongue out to swipe against Quentin’s hole.

Quentin did shout. It was the most gratifying thing Eliot had ever heard. He licked Quentin’s hole again, again, blissed out on the sound, and when it _stopped_ after a minute, he pulled away completely, affronted, to find that Quentin had buried his face in the pillow. His whole body was tremoring, and his hole—Eliot, who’d been so greedy to taste it, finally got to _look_ —was pink and wet with spit, clenching and unclenching spasmodically. “Don’t—stop that,” Eliot said. “Stop biting the fucking pillow.”

“What?”

“I want to hear you,” Eliot said. He was trying to be patient; he felt crazy. “Do you think I don’t want to hear you?”

“I don’t want,” Quentin said, in a low, mortified voice, “the whole _cottage_ to hear me.”

“If you can think about that, I’m not doing a good enough job,” Eliot said. “If you cover your mouth again, _I’ll_ scream.” He got a hand around the front of Quentin’s thighs, then, and dragged him back so that his ass was in the air, and kissed him again, dragged his tongue across his sensitive rim, whole body thrumming when Quentin howled as if on command. _I said you’d like it. I said you’d like it. I said I knew what you’d like, and look—_

“Eliot,” Quentin was saying raggedly between animal shouts. “Eliot, Eliot—El, jesus—”

Eliot mmed, but didn’t stop. He just kept licking Quentin open, muscling into his hole, feeling it flutter and flutter and give, loosening up the longer Eliot buried his face in and kept at it. After awhile, Quentin stopped shouting so much, but that was fine because Eliot could hear him almost mewling, the kind of noise you wrung out of somebody right before they started to cry with pleasure, disbelief, and because his knees were shaking and slipping on the bed even as he kept dragging himself back into position, arching back against Eliot’s face, like he wanted it, like he couldn’t believe how much he wanted it: Eliot’s mouth moving against this place no one had ever touched before.

“If you don’t, uh, stop,” Quentin said eventually.

Eliot mmed again. He’d started to work a finger into Quentin by that point, just a little ways in, and was kissing around it, admiring the little stretch.

“Eliot,” Quentin said more urgently, “if you don’t stop, I’m gonna.”

Eliot pulled back. “Are you s—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Quentin said, desperate, “I’m sure, stop touching me, you have to—”

“Okay,” Eliot said, and pulled his finger out slowly; sat back on his haunches, breathing heavy.

Quentin didn’t move. Eliot could see that his eyes were closed, his mouth slack against the mattress. He was trembling, ass still in the air, clearly trying to breathe evenly. “Gimme a minute,” he said, voice slightly slurred. He cleared his throat. “Or. If I come now—”

“No,” Eliot said.

“...fine,” Quentin said, instead of even whining about it. He kept breathing. His hand was clenched up by his face, fisting the sheets.

He looked so pretty. Eliot took a deep breath and tried to think about something that wasn’t saying fuck it and jerking off across his back, making a complete mess of him. “See?” he said. “I said you’d like it.”

“Uh huh,” Quentin said. His face was screwed up like he was in pain.

“And you do,” Eliot said. Quentin winced. “Look at you. I can tell—”

“Stop it,” Quentin ground out.

“If I just talk—”

“Stop,” Quentin said wildly, “can you—I’m so close. You have to stop.”

If he creamed himself before Eliot could get inside him, Eliot was gonna wring his neck. He was gonna burn the building down.

He shut his fucking mouth.

It took Quentin a minute to stop trembling. Eliot spent it trying to regain a semblance of control himself. It was—he took a deep breath and flexed his hands against his thighs. He’d started out stroking himself through the silence, stopped when he realized it wasn’t a good idea, with Quentin laid out before him like this, bare and vulnerable, saying psychotically tempting things like _don’t touch—I’m too hot for you, it’s too good, don’t touch me._

He made himself finish the thought: it was Quentin’s first time. He felt it in his thighs like he’d just downed another shot. He should. He should take it slow, he had to take it slow. When Quentin had calmed down, Eliot would get a finger back in him, keep opening him up, careful, measured—

Except—it was a soft, intrusive thought—he’d _already_ been careful. He’d _already_ taken it slow. He’d opened Quentin up on his tongue already, Quentin had liked it so much— _too_ much—so much that they were sitting here in silence while he tried to calm himself down enough to keep going.

How much more did he need? How much—

“Okay,” Quentin said.

—“Fuck it,” Eliot said, and shoved forward, getting a hand on Quentin’s hip and gripping it hard. “Tell me if it—”

“Fuck—Eliot—”

“—hurts, it’s not gonna, I promise,” Eliot was saying, barely able to draw breath, jerking himself twice and then, hands shaking so that he was half-afraid it wouldn’t even work, doing the spell to slick Quentin up. He could see when it took—Quentin twitched beneath him and buckled a little, rolling his forehead against the mattress before tipping his face sideways again, wide-eyed. “It’s not gonna hurt,” Eliot said, guiding his cock until it was just pressing at Quentin’s entrance. “It’s not—”

“Just do it,” Quentin said, and Eliot was so shocked at how fervent he sounded that (“oh,” Quentin said, “my god—”) he did. He braced himself over Quentin and pressed a crazed kiss to the back of his head and let himself rock forward, sink in.

It was tight. It was _so_ tight that Eliot couldn’t think, couldn’t really be careful or even tell Quentin, anymore, that he was trying to be—he couldn’t talk. Quentin’s back was damp with sweat and Eliot was kissing it, kissing the back of his neck and his shoulder blades and the knob of his spine, kissing him and fucking into him, deeper and deeper, until he couldn’t cram himself in any further—he’d bottomed out. “Okay?” he said, but he was already moving anyway, pulling back out and sinking in again—he couldn’t stop himself.

“Uh,” Quentin said—well—kind of—he didn’t seem to be able to speak.

“Q—”

“Move,” Quentin said, “just— _ah_ ,” jolting and crying out when Eliot did.

“I told you,” Eliot said. He un-clenched his hand from Quentin’s hip, just so that he could slide it round and squeeze his ass instead. “I told you it wouldn’t—”

“El—”

“—hurt—”

“Move,” Quentin said, voice very small and crazed. “move, move, can you—”

“Okay,” Eliot said, and braced himself, and started to fuck Quentin in earnest.

The first real thrust—Quentin shouted. No matter what Eliot had said, it _was_ a hurt noise—and confused—like he couldn’t understand whatever he was feeling—he’d never _felt_ it before, Eliot thought dreamily, and fucked him harder instead of asking if he was fine again. He was fine. Eliot knew he was fine. He had the kind of ass that _wanted_ to be fucked—Eliot had been certain, and now he knew for sure, from the way it was clenching so sweetly on his cock, the way Quentin was fucking back like he didn’t even _mean_ to—like his mind might be confused but his body wasn’t remotely. It was desperate, and needy. His pretty, untouched ass, his little hole that he’d never meant for anybody to touch or kiss or finger, let alone work a whole cock into, but Eliot _had_.

“Good?” Eliot said. Quentin made a sound like a sob. His back was all tensed up. Eliot kissed his neck again. “You feel good,” he said, hitching Quentin closer and holding him in place. “You wouldn’t—you can’t imagine.”

“This is crazy,” Quentin said. He half-laughed, suddenly, before Eliot drove into him hard, and then he was shouting again, scrabbling to get a grip on the sheets, to get a little purchase.

Eliot did, despite Quentin’s earlier concerns, have wards on his room—almost everybody did at Brakebills—but he half-wished suddenly that he’d taken them down, and he was glad, at least, that Quentin didn’t _know_ about them. That Quentin thought he might be keeping the whole house awake with his howling. He could keep thinking that. Eliot _wanted_ him to keep thinking that, wanted to see him slink down to breakfast the next morning, scarlet with mortification, certain that everybody was looking at him and thinking: Eliot Waugh reamed him so hard he forgot his own _name_ last night.

“Look at you,” Eliot said. He tucked himself up against Quentin’s back and kept moving, shivering at the clutch and drag of Quentin’s ass as Eliot fucked into him again, again, staccato thrusts that lacked the—he didn’t _mean_ to sound conceited, exactly, but—artistry he usually brought to bear on sex. Artistry was out the window. He felt neanderthalic. There were exactly two things he wanted in the world: to be inside Quentin, crammed up into the soft pink heat of him, and to slide out of Quentin so he could _get_ inside again. “So fucking pretty,” he said, nuzzling Quentin’s shoulder, then biting it, hard, gentling the bitten place. “I’m so deep in you. Can you feel me?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, “you’re—”

“My cock inside you—”

“Eliot, you said.” Quentin sounded desperate. “Not till you got inside…”

Eliot kissed his shoulder. “I know,” he said. He slid a hand around to brace it against Quentin’s front, his heart racing fast against Eliot’s palm—then slid it further down, meaning to get a hand around his dick.

Only—“Oh,” Quentin said in a dazed, shocky tone the second one of Eliot’s fingers brushed against him, and seized up, clenching so hard that it was all Eliot could do not to come—not to come with him. “Oh,” he kept saying after the long frozen moment in which he was clearly—why couldn’t Eliot _see_ it?—spurting up onto himself, all over his own stomach, and the sheets. “Oh, my god—”

“Fuck,” Eliot said thickly. “You barely lasted. What was that—”

“Uh,” Quentin said, panting wetly against the mattress.

“—like—a minute?”

Quentin’s face was unreadable. He seemed barely to register what Eliot was saying. Eliot fucked into him again, a hard, deep drive, trying to punctuate his words; but even though Quentin’s body jolted at the intrusion, he didn’t say anything, or even shout. He was blinking and blinking, breath coming fast. His lashes were damp and dark.

It was unbearable, suddenly, not to be looking at him head-on; not to be able to see his trembling stomach, or kiss his nipples, or rub a hand up his soft, pale throat. “Good,” Eliot said, “you’re good, hang on, you’re okay,” and pulled out, flipping Quentin onto his back as quickly as he could. Quentin went like a ragdoll. He didn’t even seem surprised, except that he blinked up at Eliot some more, breathing raggedly, and made a sound like he’d been punctured when Eliot shoved his knees up and fucked right back inside him, fuck, so good—the best—the literal best ass Eliot had ever been in, he thought wildly. The best, the absolute best—“Look at you,” he was saying without meaning to, rutting forward. “Can’t believe you’ve never taken a cock before. You haven’t—tell me—”

“No,” Quentin said in a dim, dreamy tone. When Eliot glanced down, he could see himself sliding in and out of Quentin’s body—Quentin’s hole gaping around the intrusion—and he could see Quentin’s stomach glistening in stripes. His cock was still hard. Eliot couldn’t resist—he got a hand around it and didn’t let go even when Quentin wailed and shocked up like he’d been hit by lightning. “ _Eliot_ ,” Quentin said, and, “too much, it’s too much,” in a frantic, overworked voice.

“Shh,” Eliot said, “okay,” jerking him once to watch him tear up a little and then taking pity, petting Quentin’s stomach instead as he sagged back against the bed, boneless again.

He’d made such a mess of himself. There was come everywhere. Eliot swiped his fingers through it, rubbing it into Quentin’s overheated skin, and spreading it up his chest and across his pebbled nipples, worrying at them until Quentin hissed and shied away from the touch. “I wanted to see it,” Eliot said. Quentin made a noise that seemed like all the encouragement Eliot was gonna get. “Wanted to see you come,” he said, “make you come all over yourself. Look at you. I wanted to see it.”

“Maybe,” Quentin started hoarsely, “you should’ve,” but Eliot didn’t care to take tips from first-timers. He hooked two fingers into Quentin’s mouth, instead, to shut him up. It worked alarmingly well. Quentin barely even startled—just suckled reflexively, groaning, even though Eliot’s fingers were wet with come.

“Jesus,” Eliot said, genuinely staggered, fucking into Quentin, watching greedily as he swallowed, throat bobbing, eyes fluttering closed. “I can’t believe I didn’t fuck your face. Do you want that?” Quentin was still just sucking at his fingers; he had to take them away to get an answer, and even then, Quentin chased after them with his mouth, keening a little, as if confused at the loss. “Do you—”

“Yeah,” Quentin said roughly.

“Next time,” Eliot said. He was already thinking about it— _come down Quentin’s throat to take the edge off, get him on his back, finger him open, watch his face, fuck him slow—fuck him for hours—don’t touch his cock once._ Then, in the middle of the thought, the words suddenly registered—next time—

— _oh,_ Eliot thought for about the fifteenth time that night—and looked down at Quentin’s soft, open mouth, his limp, fucked-out body, smeared with come and sweat and bruised up where Eliot had kissed him hard enough to hurt—and came, abruptly, not meaning to, cramming himself as far up into Quentin as he could and collapsing forward with the shock of it. Quentin was saying something beneath him, or—shouting, maybe. Eliot couldn’t hear through the rushing in his ears, couldn’t think above the screaming pleasure of Quentin’s ass clinging, holding him in, as he pulsed and pulsed, filling it up. 

Afterwards, the room was very quiet. Just the ragged sound of breathing. When Eliot came back to himself, Quentin was petting the back of his head, his hand gentle and uncertain.

“It’ll be,” Eliot said. “When I pull out—”

“Fuck—”

“Messy,” Eliot said, and found the strength to raise his head and kiss Quentin again, thinking about _that_ , before working himself carefully out, wincing and oversensitive, and rolling onto the bed beside him. “Okay?” he said after a moment, glancing over at Quentin.

“Yeah,” Quentin said. There was a strange look on his face. Eliot recognized it—well—part of it. Part of it….he wasn’t so sure.

“Can you,” Eliot said. He cleared his throat. “Can you feel it?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said again, and shifted. “Um. Yes.”

It would probably be polite to apologize, but Eliot wasn’t going to. _Good_ , he thought instead, surprising himself with his own fervency. _Good_ that Quentin could feel it. _Good_ that Eliot had come inside him, where he needed it, had made him all loose and wet, and _good_ that it was doubtless sliding out of him now, down his leg and onto the bed: proof that Eliot had been there, taken care of him, given him what he needed. Eliot’s dick twitched hopefully. He _couldn’t_ go again, he knew that, but—he wanted to. Every single part of him did.

“Mm,” he said, instead of any of that, and reached sideways to pet Quentin’s side with one finger, very gently. “Better than the coatroom?” he asked after a while.

“It….yeah,” Quentin said. He was squinting up at the ceiling, one hand scratching idly at his stomach. “Much better. A lot. Different.” He sighed. “I’m having a weird year.”

 _Me too,_ Eliot thought, staggering himself with tender feeling.

It was late. He was gonna pass out soon. When he woke up, he thought, maybe he’d be feeling something different. Maybe he’d want Quentin to leave; maybe he’d slap his ass when he went.

On the other hand—

“In the morning,” Eliot said, a little stiltedly. He could feel his own heart beating too fast. “We could do it again.”

“Okay,” Quentin said, yawning, as if it were nothing—and tucked himself up against Eliot’s side, a warm, strange presence—and fell asleep.


End file.
